"Life's either a daring adventure or nothing." Helen Keller

Here, On The Other Side

About the time the principal told me that it was good for children to cry because it was a stress release – their bucket was full and this was the overflow, my brain threatened to shut down. As the conversation wound its way to Miss S’s morning routine, and I heard my voice defending long-standing parenting decisions, I came to the cruel realization we were on our own; the administration was trying to find a way to blame the victim.

Zombies. My husband and I had our Hallowe’en costumes handed to us long before October 31st. This whole ordeal has buried us six-feet under emotions we never knew we had, under brick walls and under red tape and herrings. We have emerged from this pile of earth hollow, shells of our former selves. We’ve forgotten to laugh. We’ve forgotten to live. We’ve forgotten to breathe.

We think Miss S is on her way back to fine, but it’s still day-to-day. Tomorrow, Monday will be the yardstick. Last week she said she didn’t want to go to school, but her grandparents were in town; none of our girls ever want to leave that kind of fun. Tomorrow, Monday, with no grandparents to distract, we’ll see. It will be the start of week three since she was the victim of two separate, targeted attacks by the same child, during recess; 20 days since this whole ordeal began.

In the last 480 hours, Boy X has been given an aid for an hour a day and is supervised during recess by either the principal or the vice principal. He’s back at home by lunch. He’s not in the classroom, but the administration hasn’t waivered from the plan to return him full-time as soon as Boy X is able.

Thus far, other than wanting to know when Boy X is returned to the classroom, our only other demand, is that Boy X be seated far away from Miss S when he does return. The last place he sat was diagonally from our girl.

The immediate response was, “(Miss S) can’t use (Boy X) as an excuse for everything,” and that one day the principal hopes they’ll become pen pals as a way of smoothing Boy X’s transition back to class.

Once the shock of our daughter being hurt physically and mentally by Boy X wore off, our mantra turned to one of healing. Boy X will not define Miss S’s school career, or, by extension, her life. We know he’s not going to be the last lumpy person to cross her path, and she needs to be prepared.

So where’s the school’s assurance that they understand it was a very scary situation, and yes, we’ll make sure Boy X is not seated within arms reach of the person he attacked? Call me old fashioned, but why, at six, does Miss S have to be the one to help ease him back to the classroom?

Here, on the other side of the incident, we are no longer information gathering. The school’s code of conduct was not followed, the administration did not deem it necessary to interview anyone who was involved; not Boy X, not the first E.A., not Miss S, no one. At our insistence, a week later, the administration finally spoke with Miss S, and her friend, but still has no plans to speak to anyone else, even after learning from the girls that they reported the punches from the first attack to the first E.A.

Here, on the other side of the incident, I feel like a dog with a bone one moment, then ashamed I still have the bone the next. This was my child. My six-year-old who was punched repeatedly; who was scared at a school she loved so dearly. I cannot rest until she’s content in her classroom again; until I know she’s safe.

Because, under cross-examination, i.e., deflection, the basics of my routine to get Miss S to her classroom in the morning were scrutinized, let the record show: I haven’t changed our routine since 2010, when Miss Q started preschool: wake, eat, dress, pee check, school. Admittedly, some days we’re saved by the bell, and though rare, others we’re sheepishly collecting late slips, this is life in the morning with one, two, and, now, three children: one, two and, now, three personalities.

I’ve replaced, “Just pick something, or you’re going to school naked.” with, “Which pair of pants do you want?” holding up two pairs. And when Miss S picks a pair of pants that I’m not holding I say, “Great, get dressed.” Even though I was told that’s not the point and I should force her to choose from my choices.

I have loaded everyone into our van, dropped off Miss Q at school, so she’s not late, then driven back home and finished helping Miss S get ready.

I have researched private, Christian, Catholic, and the smaller independent schools; and then bought lotto tickets.

I have taken Miss S to our family doctor to be physically checked out, worrying that all this time, and Murphy’s Law, her stomach pains were really appendicitis, ulcers or gas.

I have resented my husband’s work schedule that leaves me alone to navigate the stomach troubles and tears.

I have worried that we’re making too big a deal of the incident. That left unchecked, this might have blown over, or been forgotten with time. After all, there are no tears on the weekends or for Sparks and Highland Dancing.

But then, I drop the new cellphone I never wanted into my purse. Like an albatross, it stays with me through my day so that Miss S is assured her teacher can reach me at anytime, and my gut says this isn’t normal. Two grades up, Miss Q is having the time of her life. Different daughter, same school.

My child was attacked at school, and now I have to weigh the pros of a Thursday check-in with the counsellor, who we requested Miss S have the opportunity to speak to, vs. a file being started on Miss S because she’s now checking in with said counsellor.

My child was attacked at school and I am the one who started the conversation with the police liaison to see what empowerment tools she could bestow upon Miss S’s class.

My child was attacked at school and our whole family’s reeling.

So, here, moving forward, with our eyes wide open, my naive hope is that Boy X’s family appreciates how hard the elementary school is fighting for their child’s education, because I will never ever forget how hard my husband and I have had to fight for our daughter’s.

Me

I enjoy watching soccer in the rain. Most of our crafts involve glitter, finger paint or both. I am learning to eat my vegetables. And, whether in socks or bare feet, I absolutely hate stepping on Lego. Here I blog about life with my three little girls, husband and dog.